We waited until the evening to avoid the sun, the heat, and the crowds, and headed to the nearest beach. Then, we followed our traditional pattern.

Sir Lotsa Hair carried the load...

Lady Blogalot carried the shiny red Kodak.

We cloistered ourselves near the dunes for a little more privacy.

After all, we didn't want some

Nosy Nellie peeping in on our private moments.

People do that kind of thing you know...

Don't ask me how I know...

Apparently, young chicks and old hens all have the same romantic notions. We saw a total of four weddings from our hideaway that night. The Nosy Nellie in the dunes even managed to capture three brides at once.

All wanting evidence that their marriage started out on the rocks....

If you're thinking that item # 3 was a sunset on the beach, think again. We live on the east coast, you see. The sun doesn't exactly set over the water.

Instead, we packed up and headed into Savannah

before the blue hour.

That's #3.

We watched as it turnedblue...

.

And bluer

And bluest.Just plain awesome in my opinion...

And finally, we called it a night.

As for this sand pail review, I give picnic at the beach two thumbs up for an anniversary celebration. The Man of the House did too. (Of course, he also liked grilled watermelon so we probably shouldn't put too much stock in the manly opinion. I think he mainly likes the idea of a cheap date.)

So weigh in, folks.

Are you a picnic person,

or would you rather dine inside and at a table?
Would you picnic at the beach
or would you rather not have sand in your shoes?

Saturday, June 23, 2012

It’s full of wonderful stories to warm the heart and secrets
for the married soul.

Since today is our 28th anniversary, I thought I
might share one of ours.

Do you know what it is?We learned to ride a tandem.

It’s true, folks. We started way back in the early ‘80s.

Note the kelly green walking shorts

and spiffy visor.

We rented that tandem on our honeymoon, but we own one too. You
see, way back in our college days, Sir
Lotsa Hair inherited an old tandem from his brother and brought it back to
school. When we weren’t busy strolling the streets of Athens, we would ride.

By design, a tandem bicycle has only one front seat, and a
choice must be made as to the front seat rider.
Let’s face it. Most of us are inclined to want that seat. At first
glance, it sort of looks like the glory seat.

You don’t have to ride in the glory seat very long, though,
to figure out that it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. For one thing, the front seat rider has to
pedal.

This might seem obvious, but if you’ve ever been the backseat
rider, you know that you can sneak a little break or two and rest your feet on
the bar. The bike will still roll for a
while. Not quite as fast, of course, and it’ll start to get a little wobbly, but
as long as the front seat rider is giving it all he’s got, he can pull the
load.

The backseat rider has a choice to make. She can either give
it all she’s got too, or she can be a bike slug on a wobbly ride.

And then there’s the whole steering thing.

The front seat rider might have to pull the load, but he also gets to steer. It’s the front
seat rider who controls the route. That's why he has a choice to make, too.

He can either be a big old bike bully or love the pedal pusher behind him enough to make it a team effort.

Folks, that boy was a terrific front seat rider.

He never took a turn without asking me first. He steered away from potholes and stray dogs, even though he has no fear of them whatsoever. He warned me
when the road up ahead looked a little bumpy. When we were headed uphill, he told me to lean in and pedal hard. When we
were headed for a downhill plunge, he let me close my eyes and scream.

It happened the way
blowouts generally do, in the most inconvenient of locations - miles from where
we wanted to be. The fact that it was the tire beneath the backseat rider is
purely coincidental and not at all related to this post…

But blow it did, and we were left with no alternative but to
walk that tandem all the way home. Now, I
don’t know if you’ve ever walked a dead bicycle, but it’s not that easy of a
task. You have to lift the seat over the
flat with one hand and steer with the
other.

Which is what I was prepared to do.

It was my flat after all.

I am woman. Hear me roar.

But the skinny boy had a different plan; he insisted that we
switch places. I distinctly remember arguing with him that day, and I’m almost
positive it was the first time that he called me Deb-or-ah.

He told me to march my stubborn self to the front of the
bike, steer, and let him carry the
load.

I punished him with silence all the way home...

I've since learned to admit that he had the better plan.

And that’s pretty much the way we’ve been riding ever since.

He rides in the front.

I ride in the back.

We pedal together.

I'd love to say that all roads have been straight and easy, but you would know it was a tale. We've had more than our share of stray dogs and potholes in our road. It’s been an uphill climb
and a downhill fall, and we’ve had some more blow outs along the way too. Yet here we are... still pedaling after all these years.

Of course, we won't be pedaling on this anniversary. Oh, I wanted to, but the tandem has suffered another major blow out. The fact that it's the tire beneath the backseat rider is merely coincidental and not related to this post...

Thursday, June 21, 2012

That's the song that has been playing in my head for the past two days. I'm sitting here this morning completely pooped from parties, both those in Blog Land and the ones in the land of real living.

Not only have I attended more than my personal quota of blog parties lately, but it's also party season in Dixie. Beginning about two weeks ago, I have been on a nonstop party bus to everything from luncheons to weddings. My house is a bit of a mess, and I'm worn out. Marathon yakabouts can be very exhausting.

If there's one thing even more exhausting than attending a party, it's throwing one.

There's something more exhausting that that, too, and it's helping the Duchess throw one of hers. That's because the Duchess never throws a party. Noooooo. The Duchess hosts an event.

For large numbers of people...

At some random outside location...

To which the slave labor she procreated must haul

food, linen, flowers, and every manner of creative dishery.

When we're finished? We have to haulit all the way back home again.

Such was the case this week as she hosted a reception for a local political candidate. After all that fixing and lugging and decorating and serving and hauling back home again, do you know what I wanted to do?

I wanted to set up a yet another table for Cuisine Kathleen's beach table challenge.

At a random outside location.

Yes, I realize that the pool is not the beach,
but it's watery so out we went.

Actually, the we this time the we was mostlyI. The other two have common sense. The Farm Sister forked over some blue place mats and a vase and headed home to get caught up. The Duchess provided just about everything else on the table. Then she retired to the shade to watch from a distance.

I lasted about ten minutes poolside before I decided to drag the entire table into the shade with her.

That's where it ended up.

Ours is not exactly beach themed, but it is designed around something at the sea shore.
That counts, right?

The Duchess found these lighthouse dishes over a year ago at a local thrift store. They actually have bowls and mugs as well, but we didn't use them. It's summer and southeast Georgia. Not even the invisible people are interested in hot chocolate and chowder.

The only thing on the entire table that belongs to me is the set of red salad plates which you can barely see.The rest was pilfered from the Duchy.

Actually, these cute little napkin rings

are the whole reason that I wanted to do the table.

That's the same set of stemware as last week, but it belongs to her. We each have a set of it. (Belk, about two years ago) That way we can combine it for larger parties events.

We each have a set of the red flatware too.

Same reason.

If I were not too tired to join the tip party, I would give you that tip of the day.
Buy some of the same table stuff as close friends and family,
and pool your resources.

Well, that's all I've got, and I'm too pooped to provide more.

Plus, I need to get caught up and rested up. You see, this coming weekend I have another very special event to celebrate.

I won't say what it is, but after 28 years of being married to a party girl, I don't think Sir Lotsa Hair will appreciate it if the party pooper shows up instead.

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Am I the only one with a precarious pile of cheap, old, beach towels taking up space in a closet? Honestly, I don't know where they all come from. We're overrun with them around here, and we don't even have a pool.

Thanks to Blog Land, I've figured out a way to reuse them.

Just cut them into strips and wrap them around a
Dollar Tree pool noodle

for an beachy door wreath.

That way, you can join the other bloggers who have gone completely

off their noodles at a crafting party.

It's embellished with some terrycloth flowers made from washcloths which also came from the Dollar Tree. The petals were just adhered to some card stock with spray mount to keep them from being floppy.

In a big surprise, I used yet another painted Dollar Treesand pail to finish it off.

They love me at The Dollar Tree.

You might want to put on some sun shades for this one.

I warn you, the colors are kind of

bright and hot.

But it's summertime in southeast Georgia, people.

Bright and hot are the only two colors we know.

Total cost:

One dollar each for the noodle, pail, towels, and sunglasses

for a total of $4.00.Don't you think it looks like I spent at least $4.50?

Friday, June 15, 2012

Had I not ventured into Hobby Lobby looking for something cute and watermelony to put on a table, you wouldn't have to listen to this whiney yakabout.

But I did, so you do.

You see, what I discovered when I got there was nary a watermelon sight. Really and truly... there was not so much as a napkin to decoupage into a coaster. In fact, there wasn't much for summer merchandise period. What little they did have had been dismembered by craft vultures and banished to the bargain corner.

All so they could make room

for this.

And aisle after aisle

of this.

To be honest, my first response was a little bit of panic. Christmas decorations do that to me. The whole Christmas mania thing kind of comes up in my throat and threatens to choke me when the stores first put them out.

But then, I remembered something. This is June. It's not even the end of June, either. We've still got about six weeks before we enter the dog days of summer. We have not yet begun to bake.

Yet at Hobby Lobby,

it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Suddenly, I wasn't panicky anymore; I was downright irked. I stood there and glared at it for a minute, and then because I'm a glutton for punishment, I felt the need to walk through Santa Land, getting crankier by the minute.

I tried to titch and snort the whole thing out of existence, but it didn't work.

I tried to get other gawkers to titch and snort with me, but they were giddy with excitement.

Finally, I did what I always do. I called my mother and tattled on Hobby Lobby. Then, I whipped out the shiny red Kodak and took these pictures so I could tattle to you.

It was bad enough when Christmas started showing up in November, and Thanksgiving got bumped into obscurity.

Then, it moved to October...

And then into September...

But June?

For the life of me, I can't understand the rush.

Do people really need six full months to prepare for Christmas?

Please tell me someone can relate.

Does anyone else out there think that

Christmas in June is entirely too soon?

Or are you all at this moment Ho Ho Ho-ing your way
to the nearest Hobby Lobby all giddy with excitement?

Yakking all about myself...

Seriously talkative Christian mom who is blessed enough to be married to her favorite friend. We have two nearly grown daughters, one practical--and one whimsical. Together, they have filled our home with the perfect balance of practical whimsy.